ALPHABET SOUP
Making Our Way Through The ABCs of Death, One Mangled Cat at a Time
By Tess Lynch at
One summer when I was a kid, I went swimming in a pond against my family’s protests. I was a tomboy and I didn’t mind skipping along the slippery shore composed almost entirely of goose feculence and dead one-eyed minnows, and pushing stinky algae aside to relax in the wet funk. Halfway through my dip I cut my foot on a broken bottle and got a staph infection that, over the course of the next few days, spread up my leg in a bold red line that encroached on my knee joint. By the time I went to the doctor, my predicament was serious enough that I was warned that if I didn’t soak my leg every hour until the line receded, I would need my limb amputated. I spent 97 percent of my antibiotic-heavy recuperation fervently hoping I didn’t lose my leg, and 3 percent letting my mind crawl under the dark bed of my own imagination. I suppose this is what people with morbid streaks do. I soaked the offending body part and took every pill, but — even more so retrospectively — I was fascinated by what was happening.












